


The Singles' Party

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Insecure Sherlock, Irene and Sherlock are gay best friends, M/M, Party, Sherlock is smitten, Swearing, Trans Sherlock, Unilock, Valentine's Day, i guess, i'm not entirely sure what else to say, john is smitten, science microwave, they're both fucking stupid I don't know, tw drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9711110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: “So, you punched him in the cock and revealed his deepest, darkest secrets?” Irene asked. “Sounds like a great first date to me.”Sherlock’s whole body stiffened.“Oh, God, Irene, I made a complete fool of myself.”“No, you didn’t,” Irene sighed. “You’re always a clumsy arsehole.”“You’re not helping!”In which it's Valentine's Day, Irene throws a party, and someone fails to respect the science microwave





	

**Author's Note:**

> Not edited like at all because I finished this like three days ago and didn't wanna stress out my fantastic beta
> 
> I'm not transgender, nor did I do any large amount of research before writing this fic, so please forgive me for small errors and implore me to fix glaring ones. I kind of just used my general knowledge and understanding to write this.
> 
> That all being said (I swear my notes get longer and longer with every fic I post), leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed or wanna spread the love on Valentine's Day! :)

“Irene!” Sherlock called as the door to their flat slammed closed. “Did you pick up the milk?”

“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” the girl replied dispassionately, her heels clicking irritatingly on the wood floors. “Get your own damn milk. We’re _flatmates,_ not married.”

“Thank God,” Sherlock muttered. He didn’t move from his spot on the sofa. “How would your mother feel if you’d married a homosexual?”

“Considering I _am_ one, I imagine she’d be quite confused to see you’re a man,” Irene pointed out. Sherlock chuckled as his flatmate dumped her bags on the kitchen table.

Their flat was small and sort of cramped, what with all of Sherlock’s science equipment and books lying about, but it was comfortable enough to move around without breathing each other’s air all day. Then again, neither Sherlock nor Irene had ever cared much for personal space to begin with. Their biggest problem, though, truly was the lack of bathroom space. Sherlock’s hair products alone took up more than half the medicine cabinet, a fact that bothered Irene to no end. Sherlock made up for it by granting her the bigger bedroom. His wasn’t anything more than a broom closet, really. That’s why his possessions littered every flat surface in the living room and kitchen.

“Are you even listening to me?” Irene snapped, pointing a jar of honey at Sherlock. The man raised his eyebrows and gazed at her innocently.

“Can’t really be bothered, no,” he replied, a small smile playing at his features.

Irene narrowed her pale eyes, her red lips pursing distastefully. She huffed and turned to stock their fridge.

“You did the shopping already,” Irene noticed.

“No, I did _my_ shopping.”

“There are four cartons of ice cream in the freezer.”

“I’m aware.”

Irene scoffed. “You’re gonna eat all these?”

“You doubt me? I’m _wounded,_ Irene,” Sherlock replied. “I like sweets, so I bought sweets.”

“I’m having some too, you know.”

Sherlock frowned. “Irene Adler, you get your _own_ damn ice cream.”

Irene cackled and turned to Sherlock, a wide grin on her face. “You will not believe what happened at Tesco.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Irene approached him. “Two men hit on you in quick succession. You rejected them both. I don’t know why we play this game every week; you always lose. My cashier wouldn’t stop complimenting me as if she thought her opinions actually meant anything to me.”

“Oh, come off it,” Irene scolded, shoving Sherlock’s legs off the sofa in order to sit. “You love to be complimented. S’why your head’s so big.” Sherlock elected to ignore her, instead shifting further into the sofa cushions, closing his eyes and sighing in content. He could hear Irene’s scowl in her voice. “Don’t sound so pleased over there, Sherlock. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Irene’s last words sparked both panic and intrigue in Sherlock. Normally, when Irene had a surprise, it was lacy red lingerie or form-fitting black pants. (“For when you get a boyfriend,” she’d said. “He’ll thank me one day.”) Once, the surprise had actually been a vibrator. The thing was in Sherlock’s bedside drawer, still in its box, unopened and unused. (The walls were much too thin to use it, anyway. Not that Sherlock had wanted to use it! His body was merely transport, anyway, and it really was just a waste of time to dedicate-)

“Sherlock!” Irene snapped. “Jesus Christ, when’s the last time you ate anything other than ice cream?”

“Few days.”

“And how many classes have you missed?”

“How many do I have?”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock. You have to get up sometime.” Irene paused, worrying at her lower lip. “You’re not…”

Sherlock scowled. “Of course I’m not on drugs! It was just a few times anyway. I hardly made a habit of-”

“Only because your brother dragged you out of the drug den you called a flat before you could!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not quite meeting Irene’s careful gaze.

“I’m not on anything,” he said finally, “and I regret ever talking to you in the first place. _Anyway,_ you already observed that I’ve been out. I did the shopping. _My_ shopping.”

Irene narrowed her eyes at Sherlock, and he stared back unapologetically.

“How many days of class have you missed?” Irene asked. “Two?”

“Three,” Sherlock replied as Irene got to her feet.

“At least you’ve moved since then,” she called from the kitchen. “You were in your room yesterday. Using your surprise?”

“I hate you,” Sherlock muttered, turning and pressing his hot face into the back of the sofa.

“You love me,” Irene replied cheerily. “So are you going to tell me what’s got you in this state, or shall I make my own deductions?”

“Do whatever you like,” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve had enough of you. I won’t be listening.”

“Oh, all right, then. I’ll just tell you all about my surprise,” Irene replied, taking her time in getting everything put in its proper place. “We’re having a singles party on the fourteenth. Here, at the flat. I was thinking you could invite Molly. Poor girl deserves a nice bloke who’s actually interested in women. Greg’s your friend too, right? The one with the glasses. Or is that Stamford? What the hell - invite Stamford too. As long as he’s single. And, you know, he’ll probably bring ‘round John-”

“What? No. No parties,” Sherlock blurted, sitting up so fast he nearly toppled off the sofa.

Irene smirked at him from the doorway. “Knew that’d get your attention. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the party. All you need to do is show up.”

Sherlock shot his flatmate a heated glare. He stood for the first time since around four that morning, when he’d returned from the all-night Tesco four blocks away, a plastic bag in each hand, and threw himself haphazardly on the sofa. The man blinked owlishly for a moment before righting himself, straightening his dressing gown with an air of royalty.

“What do you mean, ‘show up?’ I live here,” Sherlock pointed out.

Irene gasped. “Then it’ll even be easy for you to get here!”

Grumbling discontentedly, Sherlock staggered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He paused, stared blankly at the magnet-littered fridge, and frowned as a very pressing thought came to mind.

“What the _hell_ is a singles party?”

~♡~

“Mike, mate, I love you to death, but- Valentine's Day?”

Mike rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically

“Get over yourself,” he laughed. “I'm not gay-”

“Neither am I,” John replied, a stupid grin on his face.

“Fine, fine. I’m not into blokes. But it's a singles party. You're recently single and could use something to do. You don’t do anything but study.”

“Maybe I'm happy being single and boring,” John suggested. “You ever think of that?”

“I guess I'll have to go myself, then,” Mike replied as they walked to their next class. “I'll tell Irene and Sherlock you couldn't make it. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

John stiffened, his eyes widening as he met Mike's gaze.

“What?”

“Oh, you know Irene Adler,” Mike replied, turning to John with a small smile. “She's Sherlock's flatmate.”

“The party’s at Sherlock’s flat?” John clarified. “The _singles_ party?”

“Yeah? Is that surprising?”

“Mike, _mate,_ a singles party is a party in which no one goes home alone. _No one,”_ John stressed. “You-”

“Jesus, John, I’m not _completely_ daft.”

“Neither am I!” John laughed. “I know what you’re doing, Mike, and I’m not falling for it. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times: You’re _not_ setting me up with Sherlock Holmes.”

Mike’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a dejected sigh.

“John, _listen,_ he’s never gonna ask you out, and if you don’t ask _him,_ it’s never gonna happen!”

“It’ll happen!” John protested adamantly. “I keep telling you. It’ll happen when it happens.”

“You have to go out and get him!” Mike insisted. “That’s why Mary left you, you know.”

“All right, maybe we could _not_ go there-”

“Well, if your girlfriend can tell you’re more in love with a bloke you’ve talked to three times than you’ll ever be with her…”

“Mike, I’m wounded.”

“This is what you drive me to, John Watson.”

“I’ve talked to Sherlock four times.”

John had never seen a man so emotionally wrecked as Mike looked then.

“There are so many things I have to say to that,” he announced, his voice nearly shaking. “One: what the hell is your problem, you half-wit? Two: you’ve counted the number of times you’ve talked to him but won’t actually _ask him out?!”_

John grinned. “What’s number three?”

“Three: you always tell me when you talk to him. When did you talk to him, and why don’t I know about it?”

“Three days ago,” John replied. “For about six minutes. And I dunno. You never asked.”

Mike shot John a nasty glare. “And why didn’t you try to talk to him?”

“Who says I didn’t?” John replied. “Let me be, Mike. You can’t rush perfection.”

“That was the most… _disgusting_ thing I’ve ever heard.” Mike cringed. “You’re horrible, and I hate you.”

“The time has to be right,” John insisted.

“You’re just putting it off because you’re nervous.”

John shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I want to ask him at the right time.”

“Make it the right time.”

“Come on, Mike.”

“You make no sense. None at all,” the other boy muttered. He shook his head, a look of confusion cemented on his face. “How will you know?”

“I dunno. I’ll just know.”

“If the time isn’t right by the night of the party, you’ve got to ask him then. All right?”

“Mike-”

“No! I can’t go on like this, John,” the other boy pleaded. “Please, just do this for me.”

John was silent for a moment, weighing his options carefully. He could rush things and seduce Sherlock Holmes sometime in the four days before the party, or he could wait until the party and catch Sherlock in a place where he already felt comfortable. Maybe the party would be the better idea, considering how quickly Sherlock seemed to flee every time he was caught alone with John. Then again - That was definitely a hint, wasn’t it?

“I don’t want to corner him in his own flat,” John replied. “If he doesn’t- isn’t interested, I don’t- You know what I mean.”

Mike sighed. “I guess that would make sense if you weren’t bloody perfect for each other.”

“Mike-”

“I feel like I’m beating a dead horse, mate,” Mike interrupted. “What happened the last time you talked to him, then, if you’re so sure he’s going to reject you?”

John took a deep breath and nodded, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips.

~♡~

Three Days Earlier

John unhurriedly headed down the stairs, his phone in his hand and his eyes on the screen. He wasn’t particularly… _on time_ for his sister’s birthday pub crawl (which John felt was a bad idea to begin with, anyway), but he wasn’t exactly late, either. Judging by the most recent picture Harry posted, something told John that his presence would not be missed for long.

Just as John rounded the landing, something tall, dark, and solid crashed into him, sending him stumbling backwards and straight onto his arse. That tall, dark, solid something landed directly on top of him, all awkward limbs and pointy elbows and knees digging into the soft flesh of John’s stomach and - well - _other_ places.

“You half-witted _idiot!”_ the man on top of him seethed, pushing himself away from John with no small amount of disdain. “If you can’t be bothered to _look_ where you’re… oh.”

John stared up at none other than Sherlock Holmes, his mouth open in disbelief. The man’s eyes remained glued to his feet, suddenly unable to meet John’s. It was just as well, since John couldn’t tear his own gaze away from the way Sherlock shyly bit the pink flesh of his bottom lip. He swallowed hard and pushed himself to his feet.

“Sorry,” John replied, his mouth quirking. “And maybe you could slow down next time?”

Heat rose to Sherlock’s angular face, and his cheeks turned a dusty pink. John’s smile grew _just_ a bit wider, and he licked his lips reflexively. Sherlock must have caught the movement, for the blush on his cheeks intensified tenfold.

“Yes. Well. Hello, John,” Sherlock greeted, drawing himself to his full height. “I didn’t realize it was you.”

John shrugged. “All the same, isn’t it? Where’re you headed?”

“Bio lab,” Sherlock replied. “I’ve got an experiment to deal with.”

“Oh. For class?” John asked.

“No.”

John considered that answer for a moment, watching the movement of Sherlock’s pale throat as he swallowed. Nerves? Possibly. John couldn’t blame him.

They stood there staring at each other for nearly a minute before finally speaking at the same time.

“I really must-”

“What are you-”

“-get going, and you’re late for your brother’s party, aren’t you? Even though you don’t really want to go. Family, and all that. Pub might not be the best idea, though, considering the circumstances. At least his girlfriend’ll be there, so it won’t be all bad.”

John blinked a few times, glancing down at his phone, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied. He watched dumbly as Sherlock brushed past him and darted up the stairs. The taller man was halfway to a higher landing when John whispered to himself, “Amazing!”

A head of dark curls peeked over the railing, blue eyes squinting suspiciously. John froze, certain that Sherlock had heard him. To John’s relief, the other man gave no other indication of having heard him. Then, Sherlock was gone, his feet slapping noisily up the cement stairs. John swallowed hard, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

~♡~

Irene sat on the sofa, her mouth open in shock. Sherlock paced restlessly in front of her, his hands tugging at his dark curls.

“So, you punched him in the cock and revealed his deepest, darkest secrets?” Irene asked. “Sounds like a great first date to me.”

Sherlock’s whole body stiffened.

“Oh, God, Irene, I made a complete fool of myself.”

“No, you didn’t,” Irene sighed. “You’re always a clumsy arsehole.”

“You’re not helping!”

“I never really help you, do I? It takes too much energy,” the woman complained. “Try to get your mind off John for once. Are you inviting Molly to the party?”

“No, I can’t do that. She doesn’t know I’m gay.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “So? I’ll invite her, then. I already invited Mike for you, told him he could bring along the object of your affections.”

“When did you-?”

“You were sulking for three days. It wasn’t hard to steal your phone. He’ll be coming. You invite Greg.”

“I thought it was a singles party?”

Irene perked up. “Wait, Greg’s got a girlfriend?”

“My brother,” Sherlock replied, waving a hand in dismissal. “Tedious.”

“The one I met?”

“No, the one in Ireland,” Sherlock mocked. “Yes, the one you met!”

Irene blinked a few times, her red lips pulled into a little frown.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Is that how you met him?”

“It’s how _they_ met,” Sherlock replied. “As I said. Tedious.”

“Says the boy hopelessly in love with a friend of a friend,” Irene countered, smirking devilishly.

“I am _not_ in love,” Sherlock insisted, “and I am _certainly_ not hopeless.”

“Maybe you say that, but… babe, you sulked for three days because you embarrassed yourself in front of him.”

Sherlock shrugged. “So? What does that even mean?”

“You’re head over tits in love, dear,” Irene replied easily. “Just accept it. It’ll make everything a lot easier.”

“I’m not in love,” Sherlock refuted. “I’ve talked to him four times.”

“Didn’t Mike wanna set you two up, though?”

“Irrelevant.”

“Is it?”

“Completely. No, I can’t be in love. It’s not possible. I’ve talked to him four _times._ Who falls in love after four conversations?”

“Conversations? Barely.”

“I’ll just have to avoid him. That’ll get rid of this… infatuation.”

“Oh, now I think you’re just overreacting.”

“Oh, what is it with everybody?” Sherlock spun around and stalked towards Irene, a murderous glare on his face. “I don’t have any reaction, or I have too much of a reaction. Where’s the middle ground? Where am I supposed to stand?”

Irene stared up at Sherlock, unimpressed.

“All right. That’s enough for now. I do hope you figure all this out by the party,” she said. “I’d hate to have you ruin it.”

“Then I’ll go somewhere. Out.”

“Out where?” Irene laughed. “On Valentine’s Day? Alone?”

Sherlock’s defenses rose up. “What’s the problem with that?”

“Nothing, really,” Irene replied. “Might get a bit lonely. We could’ve stayed in and watched cheesy movies if you’d said something before I had the party idea.”

“Yes, because I can read minds,” Sherlock muttered, tension seeping out of his body. He sighed defeatedly, throwing himself on the sofa next to Irene. “The real question is how I’m going to avoid John if he’s at your little party.”

Irene grinned. “You won’t.”

~♡~

Sherlock noticed John walking down the hallway of the bio wing, right past the door to Sherlock's lab, and he panicked. The taller man ducked inside the nearest classroom, startling a few younger students who were busy dissecting sheep hearts. When he was sure John was gone, Sherlock smiled awkwardly at the students and fled, darting to his own lab before anyone else saw him.

He felt like a coward, but at least he was a self-satisfied coward. At this rate, his infatuation would be gone just in time for Irene’s dull little party.

~♡~

Of course John saw Sherlock around campus; in fact, in the last three days, John had seen Sherlock more often than he had in the past month.

John was definitely not complaining, and it wasn’t really a _problem._ Seeing Sherlock around campus (and maybe getting to talk to the other man for once) was normally the highlight of John’s week. No, the only problem was that John _couldn’t_ catch Sherlock alone. Every time he saw the curly-haired genius, the other man was already rushing away.

John didn’t know if Sherlock knew he was looking for him. Ordinarily, John wouldn’t even entertain the thought, but Sherlock wasn’t ordinary at all. Certainly Sherlock would be able to tell what was on John’s mind, even from a distance.

It just made John feel worse, really, that Sherlock might be avoiding him because he knew what lay in John’s heart, so he chose not to think about it that way. Perhaps Sherlock was just busy.

Either way, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to avoid him at the party tomorrow night.

~♡~

If Sherlock played his cards right, he would be able to avoid John for most of the party. It would be easy; all he had to do was stay in his room until most of the guests had arrived, talk to a few people who _weren’t_ the blond man he was so enamored with, make his excuses, and lock himself in his room again. Maybe he’d stay out long enough to grab some sweets. _Maybe._

There came the sound of their front door opening, and Sherlock’s heart jumped as he heard John’s voice.

“Mike’s a bit strange about being on time,” he laughed. Sherlock _loved_ John’s laugh. He’d only heard it a few times, but it’d been enough. “Sorry we’re so early.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Irene assured. “I haven’t finished setting everything up yet. _Someone_ refused to help me!”

The last bit was directed at Sherlock for obvious reasons, as he was still lounging in bed, his laptop on his thighs, wearing pajamas and not at all ready for Irene’s party.

“Not _my_ party!” he yelled. “Not _my_ setup!”

“Prick!”

“Idiot!”

“Get out here!”

Sherlock glanced down at his pajama bottoms. “No!”

“Hey, we can help you out if you need it,” Mike suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Irene practically _oozed_ gratitude.

“That would be lovely! I’ve got more streamers to hang. Can you get the snacks from the kitchen? Oh, and don’t touch the science microwave.”

Deciding that maybe he should get dressed before Irene dragged him into the sitting room by his ear, Sherlock set aside his laptop, tugged on a binder, and changed his pants, not bothering to close his  half-open bedroom door. No one walked down that hallway unless they needed to get to a bedroom, which no one would need to do, so he figured he was relatively safe.

That’s when Sherlock was hit with a particularly vicious draw-four.

“John, can you get Sherlock out of his room? It’s just down that hallway there, the second door.”

_Oh, God._

Panicking, Sherlock threw on a purple dress shirt, buttoning it as quickly as possible. He missed a few of the buttons, but he was reasonably sure that John wouldn’t catch any glimpses of his binder. (Now, Sherlock was by no means still closeted. Everyone of importance knew nearly immediately, and everyone else should have the good sense to mind their damn business. Of course he planned to tell John eventually, if their relationship progressed beyond accidentally assaulting each other, but he wasn't fond of the idea of John catching him in just his binder and a pair of pants.) He’d just grabbed a pair of jeans when the door opened fully.

The last thing Sherlock needed was for John to see him half-dressed and frantically trying to pull up his jeans, hopping around like a fool in the two feet of space his little bedroom granted him, but, sadly, that’s just what he got.

John stood frozen in the doorway, his blue eyes wide and his face bright red.

Sherlock stared back at him, his jeans around his knees and his mouth open.

“Oh, God, sorry!” John apologized suddenly. Startled by John’s outburst but unwilling to admit it to himself, Sherlock took a singular step back.

Well, that’s what he’d tried to do. Sherlock had forgotten that his legs were still caught up in his jeans and tumbled to the ground, smacking the back of his head on the bedside table. It was much more cluttered in his room than usual, what with Irene wanting the flat to look nice for her party, and Sherlock landed on a pile of books he’d only put there this morning.

John rushed to his side. “Shit! Are you all right?”

Sherlock, acutely aware that John’s hand was millimeters from his bare thigh, muttered, “Perfectly fine,” even though he was not, in fact, perfectly fine at all.

The blond gestured to Sherlock’s head. “Can I-? Um.”

_Oh._

“Can’t it wait until I’m dressed?” Sherlock replied, gingerly prodding at the bump forming on his skull. “It’s not bleeding. You should go ask Irene for some ice.”

John nodded, his eyes (so, _so_ blue) still widened in concern. “Right. Yeah.”

Sherlock took a shuddering breath as the blond rushed out of the room. He stood on shaky legs and finally buttoned his jeans. He rebuttoned his shirt (much more carefully this time) and put _just_ enough product in his hair to make it look careless. Most of it was in the bathroom, anyway, and he couldn’t do much without it.

Tucking his shirttails into his jeans, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom and sauntered into the kitchen. Irene paused, cast him a disdainful glance, and went back to hanging red and pink streamers. John, having shoved aside the fingers in the freezer, offered Sherlock a bag full of ice.

“I am… _so_ sorry,” John apologized again. “Do you mind if I…?”

Sherlock shrugged, his face heating up.

“Probably won’t be able to see anything through his hair,” Irene called.

Sherlock didn’t mind John’s fingers sifting through his hair, even though they were standing in the middle of the kitchen (and even though it’d taken a nasty whack on the head to get there). After no small amount of time had passed, John cleared his throat and handed Sherlock the ice. The taller man took it from him gingerly, letting out a hiss of discomfort as he pressed the ice to the bump on his head.

John winced at the sound of Sherlock’s pain. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve knocked or-”

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock replied easily. “It’s Irene’s fault, anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Irene demanded, storming into the kitchen, a bowl of crisps in her hands.

“Well, if _you_ hadn’t told John to-”

“If you had helped me or actually been ready, you-!”

“It’s _your_ party!” Sherlock argued, his eyes narrowing. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because it’s Valentine’s Day, you’re my friend, and you don’t actually _like_ being alone,” Irene replied heatedly. “I bloody live with you, for God’s sake! If you wanted to be alone, Sherlock Holmes, you’d have moved out a long time ago. Now, you’re going to attend this party, and you’re going to enjoy yourself. Are we clear?”

Sherlock tampered down his near-smile with a deep scowl. “Crystal.”

Irene narrowed her eyes and saw right through him. “You’re such a prick. Just smile for once. It’s not gonna kill you.”

Sherlock shrugged, smirking. “You never know.”

Irene rolled her eyes as Mike appeared in the doorway, a small box of lightbulbs in his arms. Sherlock frowned at the sight; he turned to look past Mike and into the sitting room, sighing as he realized what Irene had done.

“You really went all out, didn’t you?” John laughed.

The sitting room was bathed in soft pink and purple light emitting from the few lamps scattered around the space. White fairy lights hung from the walls, granting a small amount of substantial light to the pink-tinged room. Glittering heart cutouts decorated the walls, and streamers hung delicately from the ceiling, curving and twisting and giving the place a festive, sort of cheesy look.

“I like it,” Sherlock said quietly, loud enough for only Irene to hear.

“I’d tell you not to get soft on me,” she muttered back, “but you’re the softest person I know.”

“Piss off,” whispered Sherlock, moving from her side to the sofa, where he threw himself haphazardly, holding the ice resolutely to the back of his head. One could only hope that the pain would subside soon, numbed by the cold at the base of his skull.

The doorbell rang, and Irene answered it with a bright smile. In walked Molly, a pack of wine coolers in her hand. Sherlock tore his eyes away from the scene to see John staring down at him nervously, a pill bottle gripped in one hand.

“Do you need a paracetamol?” he asked, a slight frown on his face.

Sherlock deliberated for only a moment before holding his hand out to receive the bottle. John’s fingers brushed his, and Sherlock swallowed hard.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, popping one pill in his mouth and handing John the bottle. “Where’d you find that?”

“Medicine cabinet in the loo,” John replied. “Almost didn’t see it what with all of Irene’s hair product taking up so much space.”

Sherlock blushed. “Most of that’s mine, actually.”

John’s face reddened as well. “Oh! Well. I’ll just- put it back, then.”

“All right, John.”

~♡~

John stared at himself in the mirror, mentally berating himself.

He'd gotten off to a positively _brilliant_ start, what with barging into Sherlock's room whilst he was changing and all. While he really wasn't opposed to seeing Sherlock half-dressed, he would've liked to do it with the other man's consent. And he’d startled Sherlock so horribly that the taller man had hit his head on the edge of a dresser. John had tried to check for a concussion, but he’d been reminded that Sherlock was only wearing pants.

It hadn’t been the best way to start the evening, but John didn’t see how it could get any worse.

He stepped out of the bathroom, grabbed one of the beers he and Mike had bought, and made his way to the sitting room.

John rather liked Irene and Sherlock’s flat. It was tiny, but it was lived-in and felt like a home, with just enough space to move around (except in the bedrooms, apparently). There were textbooks and stray papers and a few odd pieces of science equipment lying about, and John could plainly tell which occupant owned what. The microscope was Sherlock’s, as was the test tube rack and the advanced biochemistry textbook. Irene’s clutter included a bag of what could have been makeup or nail polish, bobby pins scattered here and there, and marketing textbooks that she must have forgotten to put away.

So, yes, John rather liked Irene and Sherlock’s flat. He liked it because it was obviously theirs. He liked it because Sherlock seemed so much more relaxed here, joking with Irene, than any other time John had seen him.

As John’s gaze settled on Sherlock lounging on the sofa, he realized that things could definitely get worse.

Molly Hooper, one of the shyer girls in his biomedical science course, sat nearly on top of Sherlock, giggling and beaming down at him with hearts in her big brown eyes. He was talking animatedly, his free hand gesturing wildly, a small smile playing at his pink lips.

John pursed his own lips before taking a swig of beer.

“They're not dating.”

The blond jumped at the voice behind him. He turned to find Irene nursing a wine cooler, her eyebrows raised. The expression on her face was, generally, unimpressed.

John frowned. “Sorry?”

Irene jerked her head towards the couple on the couch. “Molly and Sherlock. They're not dating. Never have been.”

“I know they're not dating,” John whispered. “Singles’ party, and all.”

Irene shrugged. “Still good to know.”

“What difference does it make if they're not dating when they _want_ to be?”

“They don't,” Irene replied simply. “Well, maybe one of them wouldn't mind, but the other hasn't even thought about it.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Another shrug. “Because _you've_ thought about it.”

John narrowed his eyes at the woman standing across from him.

“Am I that-”

“Oh, don't look now. He's staring at your arse.”

John startled. “What?!” he hissed.

“I don’t blame him,” Irene replied. “I mean, I’m gay, but I’m not blind.”

John blinked a few times, and Irene laughed.

“Oh, sweetie. You two are cute.” She laid her hand on John’s arm. “He doesn’t like me talking to you, you know. Thinks I’ll say something embarrassing. I don’t think I have, have I?”

Slowly, John shook his head.

“Marvelous,” Irene replied, grinning. The buzzer rang, and she rolled her eyes. “I’ll just get that, then. You get yours!”

John stared after the woman as she left for the door. He glanced over at Sherlock only to find the other man’s eyes fixed on him. Sherlock blushed faintly and looked away, embarrassed. John took a nervous swig of his beer before walking into the sitting room. Molly still occupied the seat next to Sherlock, so John struck up a conversation with Mike until all the guests had arrived half an hour later. (Irene was _livid_ at their tardiness.)

Greg Lestrade and his boyfriend (which John didn’t understand, since this _was_ a singles’ party) kept mostly to themselves in the corner, whispering to each other and smiling like idiots. Well, at least _Greg_ was smiling like an idiot. His boyfriend never so much as cracked a grin, instead smirking imperiously every now and then.

Sherlock wouldn’t stop glaring at them.

Thankful that Molly had finally left Sherlock’s side to join Mary and Sarah, John wandered over to Sherlock.

He nodded towards Greg and his boyfriend and asked, “Is he an ex or something?”

Sherlock looked up at him, surprise evident on his angular features. “I’ve never dated Greg.”

John shook his head, an uneasy smile on his face. “Not _Greg._ His boyfriend. You keep glaring at him like you hate him or something. I didn’t think Irene would invite someone that-”

“No!” Sherlock blurted, his face paler than usual. “No, Mycroft’s my- He’s my older brother. God. I’m glaring at him like I hate him because I hate him.”

John knew without a doubt that his face was as red as the decorations on the wall. He laughed uncomfortably, cursing himself for making things so awkward not even a minute into their conversation.

“I guess I understand,” John replied. “I’d hate to have Harry show up here.”

“How _was_ that pub crawl?” Sherlock asked, moving his feet so John could sit down. “I wouldn’t say it went well, as your reluctance to even mention your brother suggests.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Harry’s my sister.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “A _sister._ It’s always something, you know.”

John laughed, and Sherlock’s smile grew just a bit.

“It went about as well as I expected,” John admitted. “That was amazing, by the way. How you knew all those things about me. Or maybe you're just stalking me.”

Sherlock recoiled, and John bit his tongue.

“I'm not- I wouldn't-”

“No, no, I know you aren't,” the blond assured. “It was supposed to be a joke, but… I really do think you're amazing.” John blushed as he realized how that sounded.

“Oh. I- You really think so?” Sherlock asked, inching closer to John.

“Yeah,” John affirmed, a smile tugging at his lips. “Course I do. Is it that hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered simply, his crystal eyes wide. “It’s just that that’s not what people normally think.”

“And what do people normally think, then?”

Sherlock gave a small, sad smile, averting his eyes. “That I’m stalking them.”

“I think I’d’ve known if you were stalking me,” John replied easily.

Crystal blue eyes narrowed in John’s direction. “I don’t think so.”

_All or nothing, John._

“Well, I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” John said. “I saw you a few times, but it didn’t look like you wanted to talk.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened for just a second before narrowing once again. “You’ve been following me?”

John shook his head, internally screaming as the taller man leaned away from him. “I’ve been _looking_ for you. Much different. I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?”

The skepticism in Sherlock’s voice made John’s heart ache.

“Why not?” he asked.

Sherlock was genuinely confused. “Because I’m-”

“Hey, hey,” John interrupted, holding his hands up in surrender, “let’s not get into our deepest fears and insecurities, okay? I normally save that for the _second_ date.”

John watched in concern as Sherlock began to blink rapidly, suddenly sitting up, his back as straight as a rod. Maybe trying to be funny wasn’t working.

“Ah, sorry,” John apologized, grimacing at himself. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

Slowly, Sherlock relaxed into the sofa, and John let out a huge sigh of relief.

“And how did it sound?” Sherlock asked blandly. “Like you were making a bad joke?”

“Like I’ve dated every guy, girl, and anyone in between on campus,” John explained. “I haven’t.”

“I know you haven’t,” Sherlock replied. “Nor do you want to, although I’m sure you could.”

John had to process that for a moment.

“What?”

Sherlock blushed high on his cheekbones. “Oh, well, you-”

_“Sherlock!”_

John’s head whipped around, and he caught the gaze of a tall, broad-shouldered man with a charming smile plastered on his dark face.

“Sherlock, pet, it’s so good to see you,” the man continued, his dark eyes trained on John. “It’s been too long.”

The word _pet_ made John’s stomach churn. Boyfriend? Ex? Just some creep who happened to know Sherlock? John looked to Sherlock for guidance, his heart in his throat. The taller man’s face was pale, his eyes widened in surprise. His lips were set in a grim line, and his jaw was tightly clenched.

All it took was one look at Sherlock’s face for John to wish the worst upon the man standing in front of them.

“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” the man asked, finally turning his gaze towards Sherlock. “Was it last year already, Sherl?”

“Yes,” the genius replied curtly. He stood abruptly and addressed only John. “Excuse me. I’ll be a moment.”

With that, Sherlock fled the living room, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

The man shrugged and settled down next to John, taking Sherlock’s seat and reclining as if he owned the place.

“Rude to host a party and not invite _me,”_ he muttered to himself before turning to John. “Victor Trevor,” he introduced. “Nice to meet you.”

John wasn’t so sure.

~♡~

Sherlock stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, his hands gripping the sink tightly. He breathed deeply, desperate to calm his racing heartbeat.

Victor. Victor Trevor was in his sitting room. Dear God.

_“Do you remember the last time I saw you?”_

_Yes._

It was hard to remember, considering how high Sherlock had been, but it had involved needles and hands and tongues, and it never needed to be visited. Why was he here now? Why? Whywhywhywhy-

_Focus, Sherlock._

Victor had probably stopped by the flat because he assumed Sherlock would be alone, although how he knew where to find the flat was beyond Sherlock (especially in his current state). Last Valentine’s Day there had been drugs (so, _so_ many drugs) and possibly sex. The latter Sherlock was meant to provide, which meant the former-

_Oh, God._

There were rugs in Sherlock’s flat right this very minute, when his friends, romantic interest, and older brother could find them at any time.

Maybe if Sherlock stayed in the bathroom forever, he wouldn’t have to deal with his problems. But of course, life wouldn’t be so kind to him.

“Sherlock?” John asked through the door, knuckles rapping gently against the wood. “You all right in there? It’s been nearly twenty minutes. Um, Irene-”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice strained. “I’m perfect. Just- Just a minute!”

“All right,” John acquiesced. “It’s just that he’s getting into a bit of a row with Irene. Victor, I mean. Won’t tell anyone how he knows you. I-”

Sherlock flung the door open. “He’s what?”

John stood in the doorway, shocked. “Arguing with Irene?”

The taller man swallowed hard, his eyes downcast.

“Sherlock?” the blond prompted. “You okay?”

“Get him out of my flat,” Sherlock replied weakly.

John nodded once and, without another word, went to dispose of Victor Trevor. There was a scuffle and some shouting and the slamming of a door, and Sherlock deduced (quite easily) that Victor was gone. A few moments passed before Irene stormed down the hallway, followed closely by John. They stopped in front of the bathroom door.

“Who was that, and why was he in my flat?” Irene demanded.

“Is Mycroft still here?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Irene’s question.

“Yes,” John replied. “He’s not happy.”

“I can’t imagine why he would be,” Sherlock agreed. “Irene, can we talk about this later?”

The woman narrowed her pale eyes and frowned, crossing her arms and sending Sherlock a dirty look. He pleaded with her silently to trust him and drop the subject. Blessedly, she seemed to realize that it actually _would_ be better to listen to Sherlock (just this once), huffing discontentedly and leaving John and Sherlock there, staring stupidly at each other.

“I won’t ask if you don’t want to tell me,” John blurted.

Sherlock nodded in thanks. “You won’t be any less curious.”

John shrugged. “No, but my curiosity doesn’t matter more than your privacy.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, cocked his head, and found nothing but truth in John’s words.

“All right,” he cautioned, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. He pursed his lips and opened his mouth to speak again, but John cut him off.

“Are you?” the blond asked, his deep blue eyes roaming concernedly around Sherlock’s face. They caught on his lips, and Sherlock flushed. “All right, I mean. That’s all I need to know.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “I’ll be fine,” he answered.

John nodded. “Tell me if there’s a time you’re _not_ all right, yeah?”

“Of course,” Sherlock agreed.

“And whatever it is, it’s all fine,” John added.

Sherlock had no doubt that John was sincere.

“I know it’s fine,” he replied. “I don’t-” Sherlock lowered his voice, embarrassed. “I don’t particularly like the idea of going back out there, but I _do_ like the idea of- I’d like to keep talking to you, if _you’d_ like, but I know the connotations present when one invites a romantic interest into the privacy of one’s bedroom, and- Not that I don’t- Surely, you know you’re…”

Sherlock trailed off, his face warm. John was grinning, his eyes bright.

“So I’m a romantic interest now?” the blond teased.

“You’ve always been a romantic interest,” Sherlock corrected quietly. “Until recently, I was under the impression it was rather one-sided.”

“Can’t imagine where you got that idea,” John replied. “Couldn’t you deduce it or something? You can tell everything else about me.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I wrote it off as wishful thinking.”

“Wishful- Wow. Um, all right then. Yes.”

“Yes?”

John nodded. “Yes, you can take me to your room, and we can do as much or as little as you want. If you want to talk for two hours, that’s perfect. If you want to do anything else, that’s perfect too. The loo’s not the most scenic place for anything, though, so…”

 _(John_ was perfect.)

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock agreed. “Just across the hall. First door.”

John sat on the very edge of Sherlock’s bed, but Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat in the middle, his legs folded under him.

“So-”

“You said you’ve been looking for me,” Sherlock blurted. “You never answered why.”

“Oh, right. I meant to ask you if you’d like to have dinner, or drinks, or… something,” John explained. “And then I figured I’d just have to ask you here. Are you doing anything tomorrow?”

Sherlock grinned. “Nothing at all. I know a place not far from campus. You can always tell a great Chinese place by the bottom third of the doorknob.”

“Can you?”

“Well, _I_ can,” Sherlock replied. “And I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“No you can’t!” John laughed.

“Almost always,” insisted Sherlock. “It’s dreadfully easy, but I’m afraid I can’t explain how to do it.”

“It’s just guessing,” John persisted.

“It is _not,”_ Sherlock replied. “I don’t _guess.”_

“Yes, you do! You’d have to!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ll show you tomorrow night, then.”

“Oh, please do,” John replied. “I’ll have to see for myself.”

“You will.”

~♡~

Sherlock’s laugh was contagious, and his smile was perfect, lighting up his whole face like Christmas. (John dabbled a bit in writing in his free time; he knew many adjectives, and none of them really encapsulated exactly how _dazzling_ Sherlock’s smile was. The only real word he could assign to it was simply ‘perfect,’ no matter how plebeian it sounded.)

“So you really told him his girlfriend was cheating on him?” John asked, grinning. “Served him right.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Sebastian’s never liked me since then. Not that he liked me before.”

“What’d he do after you told him?”

Maybe _that_ question wasn't the right one to ask. Sherlock's face darkened momentarily, his beautiful smile disappearing before a little grin took over his face.

“You don't-”

“Sebastian made his own deductions about me,” Sherlock said, quickly unbuttoning his shirt. “They were, surprisingly, correct.”

“Sherlock, you don't ha-”

“It's fine.”

“Sher- Is that a binder?”

John wanted to die. What kind of question was that? How stupid do you have to be to just blurt that out? It wasn't as if he hadn't seen the little blue, pink, and white flag pinned to Sherlock's wall between a periodic table and a bee poster. He'd known. He just hadn't… _known._

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, his voice clear and calm. His long fingers were steady as he rebuttoned his shirt. “I meant to tell you eventually, but I… had a change of heart.”

John reached out and stilled Sherlock’s hands, causing the other man to finally meet his eyes. “Um, yeah. It’s all fine. I promise. Thanks for trusting me.”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled as he beamed. John smiled back just as widely, giving Sherlock’s hand a small squeeze.

 _“Please_ tell me someone punched him in the face for that,” the blond said.

Sherlock smirked, life flickering in his pale eyes. “Irene broke his nose.”

“Good,” John replied, and the waves of anger in his stomach subsided.

“He was more upset that Irene had punched him than about his nose,” Sherlock added. “Didn’t like to think he was beaten by a girl. Terribly old-fashioned way of thinking, really. Irene could take me in a fight any day.”

“That woman is fierce,” John agreed.

“I’d say she’s a nightmare to live with, but…” Sherlock shrugged, gesturing to his cluttered room as a whole. “I’m not any better.”

John chuckled. “I think you make good flatmates.”

“I think so, too,” Sherlock replied, smiling softly. “She’s a meddling, insensitive prick, but I’m glad I have her.”

They were quiet for a moment, both staring at each other with stupid grins on their faces. John’s gaze found its way to Sherlock’s lips, and he tore it away, embarrassed beyond belief. He’d _told_ Sherlock they wouldn’t do anything but talk, so that’s what they were going to do. Plus, the butterflies in John’s stomach didn’t exactly make for suave, confident kisses.

“How’d your experiment go?” John blurted.

“Oh, that. It didn’t produce the results I wanted. I've got to redo it this week..”

“What results did you want?”

 _“Any_ results,” Sherlock snapped. “Some imbecile cleared it before I could observe anything.”

John frowned. “What was it supposed to be?”

Sherlock lit up and began explaining every last detail of his experiment to John, gesturing wildly with his hands. John listened intently, watching amusedly as Sherlock nearly tumbled off the bed for force of his gesturing. As hard as he tried (and he _did_ try), John couldn’t stop his eyes from catching on Sherlock’s lips, delicately shaping each word.

“John,” Sherlock called, a small smile on his face. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” the blond replied, blushing. “Um, sorry.  I can't- um.”

_I can't stop thinking about kissing you._

Of course Sherlock would be able to tell.

 _“John,”_ he began, “you said as much or as little as I want.”

“I know,” John replied, “and I don't want to pressure you into anything-”

“John.”

“Yeah?”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned an attractive shade of pink, and he said, “You _can_ kiss me, you know.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied simply.

They leaned in simultaneously, pressing their lips together softly. John let his eyes flutter closed and reveled in the sensation of Sherlock's plush lips moving languidly against his own. The blond hummed contentedly, and Sherlock shifted closer, his hand flirting with the edge of John's jumper.

They broke apart, smiling like idiots.

“You _can_ touch me, you know,” John teased.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, his cheeks still slightly pink.

“Same to you,” he replied.

“Anywhere I shouldn't?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. “My chest, I think. You?”

“Calves.” At Sherlock's confused look, John added, “Can't a bloke not like his calves?”

Sherlock laughed, and John caught his lips again, burying his hands in dark curls. The taller man grinned into the kiss and brought his hands to John's waist and neck, tracing patterns on tan skin.

Suddenly, a smoke alarm sounded. John and Sherlock jumped apart and dashed out of the room They were still in the hallway when they heard Irene start screaming.

“Why the hell would you put spinach dip in the science microwave?!”

There was another, louder _pop!_ , and the smell of smoke filled the air.

“For God’s sake!” Irene yelled. “Everyone get out of my kitchen. _Get out of my kitchen!”_

“That can’t be good,” John noted. Sherlock’s face was pale.

_“SHERLOCK HOLMES!”_

“Oh, God.”

Irene stood in front of them, her eyes narrowed and her red lips twisted into a sharp frown.

“What the hell was in your fucking science microwave?”

“It’s neither here nor there, really,” Sherlock replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Storms raged behind Irene’s silver eyes.

“You cock. You stupid, stupid _cock.”_

“I can’t help that the microwave exploded!” Sherlock protested.

“It’s your fucking microwave!” Irene shouted.

“Okay, can we please not do this right now?” John asked, stepping between the flatmates, holding his arms out in a grand gesture of peace. “I think we should get rid of the microwave before we place blame on anyone. Call 999 to dispose of it, if you want. Just… wait until it’s gone.”

“I’m already on it,” Molly called from the kitchen.

 _“Really,_ Sherlock,” Mycroft scoffed. “A science microwave?”

“Well, you can’t expect him to microwave his eyeballs and Irene’s tea in the same one,” Greg reasoned, gently rubbing his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Piss off, _My_ croft,” Sherlock shot back. “And I don’t need your help, Geoffery.”

“It’s Greg,” John whispered, his eyebrows furrowed.

 _“Greg,”_ Sherlock corrected. He narrowed his eyes at the party, frowning. “Sarah, why did you put the spinach dip in the science microwave?”

“I didn’t know it was the _science_ microwave,” she replied. “Mary and I just-”

“I’m sorry, Sarah, but can we please _get rid of it already?”_ John interrupted. “You don’t _want_ a hunk of distorted metal in your kitchen, do you?”

“Myc and I’ll take it,” Greg offered. “We’ve got to head out anyway.”

“Fantastic,” Sherlock muttered to himself. “Now I need a new microwave.”

“Maybe remember to clean it out after each use next time,” John replied, shrugging. “Might avoid any future explosions that way.”

There came a thunderous pounding at the door, and Irene stormed over to answer it. Another woman, much taller than Irene and much less put together (she wore sweatpants and mismatching socks), stood on the threshold, her arms crossed, a sour look cemented on her face.

“Care to explain what that was?” she demanded.

“Not really,” Irene replied. “Thanks so much for stopping by.”

“Listen, I know it’s a Saturday night, and I know you never throw parties, but- What the hell is that?”

Greg chose that moment to walk by with the mangled microwave, slipping past Irene and the other woman with a cheery goodbye.

“That explains the huge boom I heard in here earlier.”

“Yeah, _naturally.”_

John looked to Sherlock, unsure of how to gauge… any of whatever the hell was going on. (Did anything matter anymore, though? He’d just kissed _Sherlock Holmes.)_ The taller man shot a weak glare at the back of Irene’s head.

“Is that Stella?” he asked, cocking his head. “Why don’t you let her inside, Irene?”

“Oh, Sherlock’s in?”

“Well, we’re throwing a party,” Irene snapped. “Where else would he be?”

The woman at the door, Stella, rolled her eyes. “Anywhere else, really.”

Irene scowled as Stella stepped into their flat. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, and, slowly, everyone relaxed right along with her. Everyone, that was, except Irene. John stayed near Sherlock, enjoying immensely their close proximity. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, either. He shot John little smiles every now and then, promising more as soon as they got a chance alone.

But for now, Irene.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sherlock asked her quietly, watching Stella flirt shamelessly with a blushing Molly.

“You’re not allowed to have another lesbian friend!” Irene hissed loudly. No one bothered to pretend they hadn’t heard.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Irene, everyone in this room is queer except Mike!”

The accused simply shrugged, popping more crisps in his mouth. “I’m fine with being the straight friend.”

“And we love and accept you, Mike,” piped Mary.

“Ta.”

Irene pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we just- drop it?”

“Well, if we must,” Sherlock replied. He lowered his voice and added, “I bet she’d be a terrible flatmate, though.”

“She would be,” Irene agreed just as quietly. “Now go check out the kitchen. I know you’re itching to see the damage.”

Sherlock grinned down at her, shrugged at John, and dashed off to the kitchen. John smiled after him, content.

Irene grabbed his attention.

“Yeah?”

The woman gave him a stern look. “I know you won’t hurt him,” she said. “Just take care of him, all right?”

“The ‘don’t-hurt-him-or-I’ll-kill-you speech?’ Really?”

“No,” Irene replied, casting him a dirty look. “That’s Mycroft’s job, and I’m not even going to _begin_ getting into that right now. I _know_ you won’t hurt him. You’re smarter than that. You’ll have to deal with me and the British government.”

“I’m not sure which is scarier,” John laughed.

“Hopefully you won’t have to find out,” Irene replied. “I don’t think you will, though. And I expect to be maid of honor. None of this ‘bridesmaid’ bullocks.”

“Absolutely not,” John replied. “I’ll see to it that you’re ranked correctly.”

Irene nodded decisively. “Good. That’s good.”

_“John, come look at this!”_

Irene smirked. “Your prince awaits, Mr. Watson.”

The blond’s smile grew impossibly wide, and he rushed to the kitchen to join his (boyfriend? Would Sherlock even want to be his boyfriend? When would _that_ happen? Maybe he should have just erred on the side of caution) soon-to-be boyfriend, scraping soot off the countertops and placing it in several different test tubes.

“This I can use for an experiment,” Sherlock explained. “Facsinating.”

“Yeah,” John agreed. “You’ll have to tell me all about it.”

Sherlock, his hair a mess from John’s fingers, his cheeks flushed, his eyes soft and fond, his face lit up like Christmas, looked up at John and gave him a _dazzling_ smile.

(‘Perfect’ was the right word for it.)

**Author's Note:**

> Seems like I haven't posted in forever. The last month has been so busy and hectic and generally Not Awesome.
> 
> Good news is that I'm still working on that fairytale au! I'll start posting that in March, and that'll update every 2 weeks. I wish I could write faster than that, but alas! I cannot.


End file.
